Ghosts of Kiranon Page 2

  The spirits guided him. He was doing something he had never done before, but the powers that drew him here, fortified him and filled him with the vigor of life took control and knew what was needed. He did not resist them. It was a euphoria he had experienced at no other point in his life. The honor of his selection as one of the Suledane paled. The love in his heart for his wife did not compare. The pleasures of her flesh, so much his obsession when they were young, seemed pitifully simple compared to this. He was one with his gods now, their instrument in a way he had never before been. He found himself smiling as the power of the spirits flowed through him.

  Through his hands the magic flowed, down into Caleb to reach into his very soul, twisted and black as it was. Around his magic it curled, weaving like some kind of invisible net, isolating the magic that kept him alive and tearing it apart from the man who possessed it. Devoc felt the shattered body tense beneath him, his back arching, his head shaking beneath the gnarled old hands.

  Pain was such a simple word for it. It was accurate Devoc supposed, but he was sure it fell short. Something told him that all of the exhilaration he felt, all of the intensity, was mirrored in Caleb as unbearable agony. The few heartbeats it took for the magic to be separated from its host and flow into the old man seemed brief, but Devoc had no doubt it was punishment enough for a lifetime of evil.

  When it was done, he rose. Whatever was left of Caleb vacated his body on a strangled groan and vanished into the wind. The dismembered body made no sound nor did it so much as twitch.

  Death.

  Devoc turned his face toward the setting sun in the west. The first, at least.

  He retraced his steps through the gorge and up the slope of the mountainside to the old mining trail. Back he went to the path that would take him to Sentry. He barely noticed the dilapidated buildings as he passed them by, all empty shells and crumbling walls. The lone tower that loomed over the place filtered the rays of the dying sun through the empty window arches above him. Devoc walked to the edge of the town, inched his toes up to the lip of the gorge from which he had just climbed and paused.

  He could feel the evil magic inside of him, could feel its throbbing presence like a heartbeat. But it was not his; it did not meld with his flesh and blood. The power of the spirits still held it fast, a protective shell that isolated it from him until he was finished with this.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of mountain air. Cold. Sweet. Alive.

  His thoughts turned to his sister and her children and grandchildren. He would not miss them. He loved them and they him, but it had been a long and good experience they shared. Moments of time flashed through his mind, precious pictures of a life lived well.

  I am blessed.

  He opened his eyes. The gifts of the spirits were gone. His strength, his stamina, drained away like water down a hole. The senses of smell and taste and his acute hearing were gone as well.

  But the sunset was there. Red and orange and purple against the wondrous mountains of the Tijian, against the home of his beloved spirits it spread out like a blanket of shifting colors across the lands of his people. This was no trick of his senses, no magic of the spirits. These were his eyes - eyes that had been dark some five decades or more, restored. All those years ago, his sight was his sacrifice for the gift of speaking to the spirits. Now, for an instant, a tiny moment of peace and joy, they had returned it to him.

  He shouted with that joy and listened to his laughter echo off the mountainsides.

  The wind whipped his long, thin hair, kissed his face and held his body in a gentle hand.

  And he kept his eyes on the brilliant blanket of color until everything turned back.

  Other Titles by Edward K Ryan

  Thinner Than Blood (The Mark of the Dead – Book 1)

  Slate Run Annual – Vol 1. (Contributor)

  The Reckoning

  Ugly Whores

  Ed Ryan can be contacted on Facebook, Goodreads or through www.edwardkryan.com

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